


True Love and High Adventure

by CaptainLeBubbles



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (well one pirate), Alternate Universe - Princess Bride Fusion, Alternate Universe - Scholar and Stable Lad, Arranged Marriage, Assumed Character Death, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pirates, also there's a horse, i like to think i'm making goldman proud, no warnings tag explained in the notes, rambly writing style, should they apply potential warnings are: graphic violence and character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-06-03 16:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19468186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainLeBubbles/pseuds/CaptainLeBubbles
Summary: The boy was sick, so the man came to read to him."This is a story about true love," the man said, and the boy groaned, because he was ten, and didn't like that sort of thing yet, but the promise of pirates and sword fights left him agreeing to hear the story anyway.This is the story of a stable lad who loved a scholar, and a scholar who loved him back, and a love so deep not even Death could tear them apart.It’s also the story of a man who loved a boy enough to share one of his favorite stories with him, and a boy who loved the man enough to appreciate the gesture for what it was.





	1. Introduction By The Author

**Author's Note:**

> Three fic on the go at once is way too many, I should put one of them back, but I can't help myself, I love all three of them.
> 
> The "choose not to use warnings" tag is because I'm not sure how graphic I intend to get with the violence, or whether I'm going to have my villain(s) die. Rather than tag no archive warnings apply and later make myself a liar, I'm choosing to leave the answer to Future Theo when he gets that far into the story.
> 
> I should know before actually reaching that point what I have planned; whatever I choose, I'll make sure to be upfront ahead of time, so you guys can make informed decisions about your reading of the fic. (If you know The Princess Bride, you should already know what parts of the story I'm talking about, though I will warn I'm only using the original plot as a loose guideline.)
> 
> The first actual chapter is already written and ready to go as soon as I get the one after it done, to keep me in a buffer. Chapters will be longer than the prologue, which is just the prologue.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foreword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was flipping through my copy of the Princess Bride for ideas yesterday and remembered about the triple-barrelled foreword in my edition- the thirty year anniversary edition, which has the original introduction, the twenty-fifth anniversary edition foreword, AND a new foreword for the thirtieth anniversary edition. Given that I have an tag specifically for joking that I'm making Goldman proud, I didn't see how I COULDN'T include a foreword of the supposed author insisting very vehemently that this story is true. Be glad I'm only keeping to the spirit of Goldman; the book this au is based on is over sixty pages long (if I read my roman numerals correctly) before you even get to the story itself.
> 
> I've never included a chapter out of order before so bear with me if it fucks up the chapter order.

-/-

_ This is my favorite story in the world, and it’s one hundred percent true. _

_ Of course, most people would say it wasn’t. My own sister, for one, who was very insistent that our mother was just reading to us from a fairy tale. (My other, much younger, sister, who never had the privilege of hearing this story from our mother herself, also agrees that the story is true. I would never have been able to translate this story without her help; for that reason is this work dedicated to her.) _

_ When I was a boy, my mother read to my sister and I from an old, hand-made book in a language neither of us spoke. She told us the story in English, which, when I took over the labor of translating, I realized was a herculean labor in itself. Sankta, the language it was originally written in, is so different from English that I am not, even now, one hundred percent confident in my translation. Where I am unsure, I lean on my memories of my mother’s telling: altered and embellished to suit the small children she was telling the story to, perhaps, but true to the  spirit of the story, at least, which I feel is important. _

_ The labour of translating this work began with my mother, but the book itself was compiled by some distant ancestor, painstakingly put together by studying the accounts of any persons involved with the story, down to even the servants and passerby, anyone who came near the events in any way and wrote them down for my ancestor to later find. My ancestor then placed the accounts together in some semblance of order, along with their own notes about the history and culture and language of their people- for this is a story of my ancestor’s people, and I suppose mine and my mother’s and my sisters’ too, for all that I do not know, even now, where the two kingdoms once lay. _

_ Even by the time of my ancestor, the countries had been absorbed by their neighbors, and said neighbors had also been absorbed. As far as I know, the book this story is translated from is all that remains of my history. _

_ It was, as I said, my mother who began the labour of translating this account. I think sometimes it must have been her attempt to keep this part of herself a live, a defiant way of not letting my unlamented father destroy her spirit entirely. It is plain, also, that she knew the story  itself by heart, since she was able to tell it to my sister and I so cleanly, even when she had only done a small fraction of the actual translation. Given how long the book has been in my family, I can only assume we’ve been telling the story in whatever language we know for generations. _

_ My sister will tell me that this story is a fairy tale, and that the kingdoms of Cielo and Keletago never existed, and that there was never such a person as Prince Gabriel or Count Michael or Duke Hastur or Prince Beelzebub, and certainly no such people as Aziraphale and Crowley, because no such love could possibly exist between two people, and perhaps she’s right, perhaps it is all just pretend. _

_ But I like to think it’s true anyway. After all, what would be the point in telling a story like this if you didn’t insist, with all of your heart, that it was? _

_ All I can really say, then, is to read the story and make up your own mind. _

-/-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The nebulous author will make some more appearances in this work, but not that often, so you'll get to know him a bit more throughout the story.
> 
> Important to note is that this is the foreword to the book that the man is reading to the boy, and so doesn't really have anything to do with the framing story- it's just there so I have an excuse to provide insight and worldbuilding where regular narrative exposition might be a bit oddly placed. So I guess you could say this story has two framing devices.
> 
> (Those who know my work of old may be able to guess at the identity of the anonymous author, but don't worry if you don't. Like the man and the boy, his name is unimportant, and he has reasons to keep it private anyway.)


	2. Prologue

-/-

The boy was sick. He had been sick since yesterday, and was probably going to be sick for a few more days yet, which meant that he wouldn’t be able to go out and play with his friends, or anything.

Honestly, he didn’t feel up to playing with them anyway. He was just bored from being on bedrest and nothing to do. He’d tried to watch tv, but it had made his head hurt, and the radio only had music, and he couldn’t keep his eyes focussed enough to read, so he was stuck lying in bed wishing he had someone to keep him company.

He coughed a few times, loudly, in the hopes that this might attract the attention of someone who would take pity on him.

Surprisingly, this worked. The door opened and the man came in, smiling and bustling over to the comfortable armchair beside the boy’s bed (which the boy was not entirely certain had been there earlier, but couldn’t say for sure). He had a book in his hand, which the boy squinted at suspiciously.

“Hello, young man,” the man said. “How are you feeling?”

“Sick,” the boy reminded him. “What are you doing here?”

“Your mother told me you were ill, so I decided to come keep you company for a bit.” The man held up the book he’d brought in. “And as I’m certain you must be getting bored, I brought a book to read to you. It’s one of my favorites, you know. It’s called True Love And High Adventure.”

“True love?” the boy said, and wrinkled his nose. “Is this a kissing book? I don’t think I’m old enough to like those yet.”

“Well, there is one kiss,” the man admitted. “It’s a love story, after all. But it also has adventure, and- and _pirates,_ and a dangerous trip through a swamp, and sword fights, and a miracle man, and an evil prince, and- oh- all sorts of exciting things.”

The boy squinted at him, weighing his options, and finally nodded. “All right. I guess you can read a little bit to me. Since I don’t have many options.”

The man smiled, and donned a pair of reading glasses before holding the book open in his lap. He turned the page, and began reading.

“The year the child was born-”

-/-

If you don’t mind, I think I’ll take over here.

You see, if we carry on as we’re doing, what we’re going to get is the man reading very faithfully from a long-winded, rambling book- the translator, after all, did his absolute best to be as faithful to the original notes and compilations as possible, and sometimes got a bit carried away. And then, too, the man stops often to make asides to discuss the history surrounding the story and its author, and to lay out explanations for anything that the boy might not understand about the historical context, and frankly no one has time for that sort of thing.

Instead, it will be a far better story if we turn over to the _boy,_ who, sick-addled as his mind is, and being ten, is only taking in a fraction of what is being said. But that’s fine. What he’s taking in is the meat of the story: all the important bits, with the faff removed. It’s much better that way, and, with his own vivid imaginings discarding and changing details at his own whim, more fun as well.

So let’s start over, from the boy’s own thoughts this time. And what the boy is thinking is, stories are supposed to start with-

-/-

 _Once upon a time_ ,

-a scholar fell in love with a stable lad.

-/-


	3. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the story is established. You know, eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait till I had finished the next chapter to post this, but work gave me so little writing time this past week that I ended up taking so long and didn't want to leave you guys hanging too much. So we'll go ahead and get things going anyway. Who needs a buffer, right?
> 
> I've updated the tags to accommodate the plans I've made during brainstorming over the past few weeks.

-/-

This is the story of a boy who loved a boy. This is the story of a boy who went away to seek his fortune and never came home, leaving another boy behind to mourn his lost love. This is a story of a boy who was understood and appreciated by no one save the boy who loved him, and the love that grew between them that could only grow that way where no other love was being offered.

This is the story of a man so consumed by his grief that he was unable to live, and a man so buried in his love that he refused to die. A story of true love, and all the ways it can save you, and all the ways it can change you. Of adventure, and defiance, and betrayal, and heartache, and of hope and starting over.

Also, one character gets stabbed in a rather gruesome way, and for the sick and bored ten-year-old hearing this story, this is the height of entertainment.

And it begins with, _once upon a time, a scholar fell in love with a stable lad._

If you were to ask the rest of Aziraphale’s family about him, they would nod slowly and say, _Oh, yes, Aziraphale. Smart kid. Really obsessed with books. Kind of a nuisance. Did you want something? We have work that needs to be done._ And then they would, perhaps, plaster on a fake smile until you walked away, feeling deeply patronized and wondering how anyone could refer to someone in their own family as a _nuisance_.

If you were to ask some of the other people in the village about Aziraphale, they might squint at you and say something like, _Aziraphale, you say? That’s the boy with his head in the clouds, right? Likes his cakes, he does._ And they’d nod and smile politely at you while they waited for you to get to the point, or left so they could get back to choring, and you’d slink away feeling ashamed for having pulled them from their work.

If you were to ask Crowley, Aziraphale’s family’s stable lad, what he thought about Aziraphale, he would get a very dopey smile on his face and say, _Oh, Aziraphale? He’s the kindest, gentlest, most compassionate soul you’ll ever meet. And he’s also the stupidest, and he never thinks things all the way through, and he’s a naive fool who trusts everyone to their word, and he’s going to get himself killed one of these days. Now if you don’t mind, this hellbeast isn’t going to groom itself, so bugger off._ Then he’d glower at you until you let him get back to brushing Horse, the enormous and enormously ornery horse that was his sole charge in the stables.

Crowley was _good_ at glowering. It came from having snake-eyes, which was actually just a genetic disorder but, this being vaguely the middle ages, was said to be the result of a curse placed on him in his infancy. What he must have done as an infant to warrant being given such a curse is anyone’s guess, but apart from making it kind of hard to see in very bright light, it wasn’t _much_ of a curse, he reckoned. Besides, smoked lenses were a thing, so he was easily able to shield his eyes from the sun, and from those who might take this mark of his curse to mean that he was going to start, oh, I don’t know, speaking in tongues or spitting hellfire or something.

Besides, Aziraphale liked his eyes. And he didn't think they were some kind of curse at all, because how could anything so beautiful be a curse? He said that no eyes had ever held such love, such warmth of expression, such wonder, such kindness, and when Crowley visited him in his study, he would put out the candles and close the shades so that Crowley could remove the tinted lenses that protected him from the glare and just exist in a perfectly ordinary state of not needing to hide or shield his gaze, and since this light was generally what Aziraphale used to read and study by, and he must need put his work away if it was dimmed, this was taken for the gesture that it was, and Crowley loved that about him.

In fact, Crowley loved _everything_ about Aziraphale, from the almost obscene way he’d sigh while eating a particularly scrumptious piece of cake, to the soft flutter of his eyelashes when he was listening to beautiful music, all the way up to the way he fretted and fussed over the Greater Good only to turn around and care about the people in the village instead of his family’s aims, over and over and over and over again. But what Crowley loved most about Aziraphale, because Crowley was selfish enough, was the way Aziraphale’s eyes would light up and he would say Crowley’s name like a hymn when he saw him, and Crowley would get that itchy all-over feeling of being someone worth loving-

-because, of course, as much as Crowley loved Aziraphale, Aziraphale loved Crowley right back with the same devoted fervor.

Which is really where all the trouble began, because Aziraphale was the scion of a wealthy family, and Crowley was a stable-lad, and even without the class divide their extended families _really_ hated each other, like full-on complete and total loathing, and so there were quite a lot of things standing in the way of them being together. And while Crowley was perfectly happy to run off and make their own way in the world and sod off to both their families, Aziraphale was not quite yet in the place where he could bring himself to do so.

Crowley devised a plan, then: he would sail away and find his fortune, and, after hopefully getting himself disowned by his family enough to no longer be considered an aspect of their families’ weird feud, and having in the interim acquired quite a lot of fortune and favor enough to support a husband, he and Aziraphale would then be free to marry and, hopefully by that point, tell their families to bugger off and leave them alone.

It was foolproof, and more importantly it was also probably Aziraphale-and-Crowley-proof.

“Must you leave?” Aziraphale asked, curling into Crowley’s embrace as if the entire world would melt away and leave them alone if he could just stay in his beloved’s arms long enough. “Surely there must be some way for us to be together without you leaving. We can go above my immediate household, we can go all the way to the top, to the very head of the family herself.”

“That won’t _work,_ angel,” Crowley said- Angel being the name Crowley had given Aziraphale long ago, long before Aziraphale understood that ‘angel’, from Crowley, was tantamount to ‘I love you’, to ‘you are the most precious thing in the world to me’, to ‘stay with me forever’. “You _must_ understand that. Our families don’t just hate each other, our respective heads are Adversaries. What a capital ‘Ad’, even.”

“I know, my dear,” -my dear being Aziraphale’s own way of saying the same things that Crowley said when he called Aziraphale ‘angel’, “-but really, there must be a way that doesn’t involve you _leaving_ me.”

“There is,” Crowley reminded him. “You could come _with_ me.”

“Well- yes, but- that is-“ Aziraphale fretted. Aziraphale was _good_ at fretting. “I only… well, they _are_ my family, after all.”

“Then this is the only way.” Crowley tightened his arms around Aziraphale, unwilling to let him go just yet, not sure how to live the next few years of his life without his angel at his side but knowing he didn’t have a choice, that Aziraphale wasn’t giving him a choice. “The only way I can be allowed to marry you is if I make a fortune _and_ get disowned by my family, and that means I have to go away and do something for both.”

“Well then…” Aziraphale stepped reluctantly from Crowley’s embrace and turned away to pick up a thin cloth-wrapped bundle from the table. He held it out to Crowley in offering. “In that case, my dear, take this. Please. Let it keep you safe.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him, and unfurled the cloth binding the bundle. Inside was a sword, beautifully made and perfectly balanced. It was slightly old-fashioned, but it was expertly made by a sword-maker who _knew_ how to make a sword, and though it was apparently well-worn, it was also plainly well-cared-for, and the marks of its age had not begun to show in it. Crowley drew it from its scabbard in wonder, watching the way the light licked the etchings on the blade, making it almost appear to be on fire.

“Angel,” he breathed, and Aziraphale touched a finger to his lips before he could say more.

“I know what you’re going to say,” he said, swallowing heavily. “But the sword is mine to give away, and it will be of much greater use in your hands than mine. I was not made to wield a sword, you know. But there are- there are _dangers_ in the world, and at least- at least this way…” He trailed off, trying to will away the tears prickling the corners of his eyes, to dissolve the lump in his throat, the weight hanging heavy in the pit of his stomach. “At least this way, you will know that I- I am there to protect you. At least in some measure.”

“Angel,” Crowley said again, a prayer this time, and then he kissed Aziraphale hard, as if he could make it last for the next few years.

There was nothing more to say after that. He belted the sword, and left.

-/-

In the real world, the boy wrinkled his nose at all this kissing, but as it was only one sentence, he allowed it to stand, albeit with a warning frown to the man lest he get any ideas about there being lots of kissing in this story.

-/-

Unfortunately, while Crowley’s plan was possibly Aziraphale-and-Crowley-proof, it was not pirate-proof, and especially not dread-pirate-proof.

The Dread Pirate Anthony was a well-known name, and had been for some twenty or more years. Where other pirates were content to do their wicked deeds and in fact quite liked a bit of word-of-mouth to put fear into people’s hearts ahead of them, the Dread Pirate Anthony did not take prisoners or leave anyone alive. He took what he wanted from ships, killed everyone on board, and then burned the ship where it floated, until it sank to the bottom of the sea.

Which is exactly what he did to the ship Crowley had sailed away on.

When Aziraphale got word that his beloved’s ship had fallen victim to the Dread Pirate Anthony, he threw himself onto Horse’s neck and wept, and Horse- normally an ill-tempered brute who would not let anyone near him and frequently kicked down his own stall for fun and so that the humans would know they weren’t the boss of him- allowed this. He wasn’t sure why, but something about Aziraphale’s grief was so enormous, so completely tangible, that it calmed even Horse’s need for violence, and he stood patiently while Aziraphale made his beautiful mane all soggy.

Once Aziraphale had sobbed every tear his body could produce, he pulled away and said, softly, “Thank you, Horse.”

Horse, now rather embarrassed about his behavior but still wanting to reassure Aziraphale, chewed his hair in a comforting sort of way. Aziraphale let out a very moist sniffle, and buried his face in Horse’s mane again. His heart, once so light and free, was a heavy, solid weight in the center of his chest. He felt as if he’d been hollowed out, and there was nothing that would fill the empty space that had been carved into him.

“I shall never love again,” he vowed to Horse in a cracked whisper.

-/-

“Hold on,” the boy interrupted, and the man closed the book on one careful thumb to give him his full attention, halting a rather long-winded history of Horse’s bad behavior, including the abuses he threw particularly at the stable-boy, who did not like horses in the least. When he had the man’s attention, the boy said, “That’s not how the story’s supposed to go. One of your leads can’t start the story off dead, and the other lead is just really sad now. That’s not a good story. _You_ said this was a good story.”

“It _is_ a good story,” the man said, reaching over to ruffle the boy’s fever-damp curls. “But sometimes a story must start sad before it gets happy. That’s how you know the characters have earned their happiness, when it’s all over with.”

“But why do they have to earn being happy? Why can’t they just be happy anyway?”

“I suppose that would be nice. But it wouldn’t be a very entertaining story, now would it? If the men could just go ahead and get married without their families or class divide causing trouble, why, there’d be no adventure! Nor pirates, nor deadly swamps, nor- well, anything! Would you like to hear a story where the adventure was avoided right from the beginning? I thought you _wanted_ to hear the exciting bits.”

“Oh, yeah.” The boy tossed himself back into the pillows, digging his shoulders back into them so that the man would know that he was sulking. “Okay. You can keep reading now.”

“Thank you. Now, where was I- ah, yes- Seven years passed…”

-/-

Now, while Aziraphale would have preferred to shut himself away in his study and never face any company apart from his books, this was not, in fact, an option for him. His family, despite not being particularly fond of him, still had plans for him to be of use to their machinations. They wanted advancement, and power, and influence, and so when the prince of the land began seeking out a consort, he was sent to the capitol to present his own name for candidacy along with every other eligible young person of high enough standing in the kingdom.

He wasn’t expecting to be chosen. He was sure that the prince, whose name was Gabriel by the way, would take one look at him and then send him home. He was, after all, not particularly desirable. He was plump, and dowdy, and soft-hearted, and he was always a bit rumpled from being buried in his books all day. Also, he spent all of his time in his study reading and not being social. No, he was certain he would be immediately rejected, which meant he was in for a bit of a shock when the prince asked him, of all candidates, to remain while he sent the rest away.

Once the others had left, some casting envious glances over their shoulder at the scholar, and he couldn’t blame them, really, because even being considered by the prince was a high honor and any one of them would have appreciated said honor far more than he was at all equipped to, the prince came down from his throne and approached him slowly.

(The prince was handsome, he supposed, tall and broad and fit, with a wide smile and neat hair, but while the prince smiled down at him, he thought of Crowley, who was long and lean and moved like the snake he’d supposedly been cursed with, who rarely smiled except in a nasty or exasperated way but always had his love for Aziraphale plastered all over him, and he _ached.)_

“What’s your name?” Prince Gabriel asked, holding out his hand for Aziraphale’s.

After hesitating a moment, Aziraphale allowed the prince to take it. “Aziraphale,” he said.

“Aziraphale,” the prince repeated, and kissed the knuckles of Aziraphale’s hand before giving him that smile, the one that Aziraphale would forever after think of as predatory. “It’s so wonderful to meet you.”

“Yes. Well.” Aziraphale withdrew his hand, and sternly told himself not to back away, because that would be incredibly rude, and instead said, “I’m sorry, but can I just ask, why- why-” He broke off, not sure how to word his question, and finally settled on, “Well, just why, I suppose.”

“Why?” Gabriel raised on eyebrow at him, then laughed and clapped Aziraphale on the shoulder. “Why not? Aziraphale, I’ve had countless eligible people from this kingdom paraded in front of me for the past few days, and not one of them has stood out to me the way you have. I mean, just look at you!”

Aziraphale did- well, metaphorically speaking, as there were no mirrors present- and things didn’t become any clearer. Really, all it did was raise more questions. Surely the prince didn’t mean to imply he’d be a beautiful addition to his court? Aziraphale didn’t consider himself ugly, but he knew appearances were very important in a royal court, and he himself was not particularly beautiful.

“Well, I only think that- well, perhaps another might have appreciated the honor more.”

“You don’t _want_ to be prince’s consort?”

“Not exactly, you see-”

“Then why did you come before me?”

“It’s just that, my family-”

“Is there someone else?”

“In a way,” Aziraphale said, and when he wasn’t interrupted once more, added, “My beloved has been killed by pirates these seven years. I have sworn I would never love again, and my family are… well, rather determined. They wish to see me respectably wed.”

“How sad…” The prince took Aziraphale’s hand again, gazing at him with sympathy. “I understand now. You would refuse me out of loyalty to your late love.”

“Yes. I _am_ sorry, you know.” He wondered if he should take back his hand, and decided that might be seen as rude. Besides, no one else had ever spoken with understanding about his loyalty to Crowley. They usually reminded him that it had been a very long time and he ought to be married by now. The prince, at least, seemed truly sorry that he had been all but widowed. “I never thought to be chosen, or I wouldn’t have come at all.”

The prince clasped Aziraphale’s hands between both of his, holding it to his chest. Aziraphale wished he’d taken his hand back, but it was too late now. “I understand. I do! But listen, Aziraphale. I would not ask that you love me- your heart may belong to another. Your lost love may keep the whole of it. I am a prince- I have never indulged the idea of marrying for love. But let me at least have this taste of it anyway- I ask not that you love me, but that you give me the chance to love you. What do you say?”

“I- I suppose I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Of course you have a choice,” Gabriel said, all kind eyes and a friendly, reassuring smile. “I would never force you to marry me against your will. That wouldn’t be fair.”

The prince was holding Aziraphale’s gaze now, earnest, yearning. His eyes were a shade of blue a little bit close to purple: they reminded Aziraphale of the flowers Crowley had once grown for him in the windows of his study. (There were no flowers in his windows now. Aziraphale didn’t have much of a talent for gardening, and growing them had hurt too much anyway, without Crowley there to chide him for being nice to them before yelling at them to grow better.)

Aziraphale missed Crowley’s eyes. He had never understood why so many people feared them, or why they were some kind of mark of a curse: as far as Aziraphale was concerned, they were just one more beautiful thing about him.

But they were gone, weren’t they? The Dread Pirate Anthony had taken them away, along with every other wonderful thing in the world.

 _I should say no,_ Aziraphale thought, feeling the tight ache he always felt when he missed Crowley, but when he opened his mouth what came out was, “Well… I suppose if you understand I cannot love you…”

-/-

The boy shot out of his pillows so quickly that it made his head spin, but he ignored it with, “What? No! _No,_ you’re telling the story wrong! Aziraphale can’t marry the prince, Crowley can’t be dead, why are you getting it so wrong?” A lump formed in his throat; tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He told them angrily to get lost; just because he was sick wasn’t a reason to go turning into a sissy and crying over some dumb book. “Tell the story _right.”_

“I am telling it right,” the man said. “True joy can only come when you have been truly wretched. But,” he added, eyeing the distress written plainly on the boy’s face, “I think I _can_ skip forward by a _bit._ There’s a monster of a chapter following this, that talks about the three years Aziraphale spent learning to be a member of the prince’s court and all of the responsibilities and duties of prince consort- but I can go on to the chapter after that, just before the wedding, where all of the action starts.”

-/-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I threw in Horse as a joke because Crowley in the book hates horses (and was only allowed to ride suitably hellish horses on work orders) and then he kind of turned into his own character. [Here's](https://img.equinenow.com/slir/w600/stallions/data/photos/1264330/1556156612/black-percheron-stallion.jpg) what I'm picturing him looking like, for anyone who's wondering.
> 
> Note: I’ve just added a foreword as the first chapter, if you’re looking for the supposed update.


	4. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't the worst day Aziraphale had ever had, but it was shaping up to be the worst non-Crowley-related-bad-day in the past decade or so, which was just the same, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed the memo, I've added a "foreword" chapter to the beginning of this fic. All explanations are within the posted chapter, and now, with the very long author's note and the prologue, this story has a triple-barrelled intro in true homage to my particular copy of the original work.

-/-

What with one thing and another, three years passed, in which Aziraphale was taught everything he must know to be a member of the royal court. He’d never really given it any thought before, but it turned out that being royal was more than merely wearing very fashionable clothing while hanging on the prince’s arm, attending balls and banquets, and knowing how to wave. There was a lot of work that went into running a country, and as consort to the prince-later-king, Aziraphale would need to take an active role in that rule.

He was beginning to understand why Prince Gabriel had insisted that a scholar, a man of learning, was so ideal for the place at his side. After all, there was so much to learn that someone who did not already know how to learn- not just how to do, but how to  _ learn _ _,_ and quickly- might have found himself soon overwhelmed. Even Aziraphale was often overwhelmed, even with such tools at his disposal.

And so, what with one thing and another, three years passed. Aziraphale was given a home in the palace, where he attended his lessons and spent time with Prince Gabriel- who, while a bit awkward and at times misunderstood Aziraphale, was always kind to him, and always upheld his promise to only ask Aziraphale’s friendship. He never asked Aziraphale to love him, for all that- as near as Aziraphale could tell- his own affection seemed to grow with every day that passed.

Aziraphale was- content. He was not happy; he could never be happy, not without Crowley. His heart still ached, and still, now, ten years after he left, Aziraphale found himself gazing at the palace gardens, or lying on the threadbare couch that had been brought from his study, or watching Horse trample the various stablehands who failed to figure out how to handle him, and that hollow place inside of him would rise up and threaten to consume him.

The only time he found true peace was when, every few days, he would saddle Horse and ride out, away from the palace, away from the responsibility, away from all of the wonderful things that he couldn’t even bring himself to enjoy because they were only to be his because his love was gone.

And on one of these days, his ride was stopped in its tracks by three figures stepping out of the trees.

_ Highwaymen, _ Aziraphale thought, and after a second glance, amended,  _ Highwaypeople. _

There were three of them, though Aziraphale couldn’t be sure there weren’t more lurking in the trees. The two behind were somewhat unassuming: a woman in thigh-high boots and a ruffled shirt, an elaborate duel-sword hanging at her belt, and a tall, spindly man with wild hair and trouser legs not quite long enough, shirt sleeves just that much too short. The figure in the front, their leader, had wild hair pulled back at the nape of her neck that blended into an elaborate furred collar; she had some kind of skin condition that gave her face the appearance of scales, and teeth that had been filed to jagged points in her mouth.

She grinned up at Aziraphale while Horse backed away nervously, showing off every single point.

“Stand and deliver,” she said, her teeth giving her voice a rather monstrous cast. Aziraphale was forcibly reminded of Crowley and his serpentine eyes.

“I think not,” Aziraphale said, and behind her, the woman with the sword drew it slowly. Aziraphale pulled on Horse’s reins, coaxing him backward so he could spin him around and hurry him back to the palace, but the man surged forward and grabbed Horse’s halter before he could.

Horse, as a general rule, did not like being grabbed. He didn’t like being handled at all, really, but he especially didn’t like being grabbed. He reared up, nearly yanking the man’s arm out of socket and sending Aziraphale tumbling down to the ground in the process. What happened after that Aziraphale would not be able to say: he hit his head, and was knocked out.

-/-

Newt- for that was the name of the spindly man in clothes that did not quite fit- lost his grip on the demonic horse’s halter and fell to the ground in a heap with an ‘auf!’ noise as the air was knocked out of him. It was only a miracle of chance that prevented him from being crushed by the monster’s hooves as they came crashing by to earth, and he had sense enough to roll away as it reared a second time, spinning around and kicking both hind legs at the women behind him.

Newt brought himself up onto his hands and knees, groaning, just in time to see his companions fling themselves away from the hellbeast’s attack. His eyes slid from Anathema- the swordswoman, who rolled away in a graceful tumble only to spring back to her feet, and then to Dagon- their leader- who hit the ground on all fours and spun around before rising sinuously to her feet, mouthful of fangs bared at the creature.

From there his eyes found their target, still lying unconscious on the ground near the hell-horse’s rampage. How he hadn’t been trampled yet could only have come from heavenly intervention, surely: those vast hooves capable of smashing a man’s skull like so much watermelon came close to trampling him and yet, never quite did. For one dazed moment Newt wondered if it  _ was _ heavenly intervention, but then, his slightly-delirious thoughts told him, why would a demon like this be affected by heaven’s intentions?

Dagon was bearing down on the creature now, fangs gleaming as she grabbed for the halter herself, yanking with more strength than seemed likely, bringing the monster’s face down so that its eyes were level with her teeth. She tilted her head back a little, glowering at it while it tried fruitless to toss its head free, and said, in a tone more like a hissing growl than a human woman, “Run home, beast. Tell Prince Gabriel that his beloved is in danger.”

The horse reared once more, freeing its head from Dagon’s hold-- this time when it spun it was only to take off back down the trail, in the direction of the palace and its stall and people that didn’t reek of predators and the lifeblood of the hunted.

And if Horse felt any guilt over leaving his master behind to his fate, that was only for Horse to know.

-/-

When Aziraphale came to, he was tied up on the deck of a ship, and it was nighttime. He groaned, and the head of the spindly man from earlier appeared in his vision, leaning over him with a concerned expression while slightly-clammy fingers probed at his head, feeling the space where the ache was centered with a touch just this side of too hard to truly be comfortable.

The man was shoved unceremoniously away a moment later by the swordswoman.

“We were sent to kidnap him, not kill him,” she scolded, and sent the man scurrying away to keep watch at the rear of the ship before turning her attention to Aziraphale. “How do you feel?”

“Kidnapped,” was the answer Aziraphale managed on his second try at unsticking his tongue.

“Yes, well. Apart from that.” Now her hand came up to feel the lump on his head, her touch much more gentle than her companion’s. Her frown was thoughtful, at least, rather than concerned; once she was satisfied with the lump, she turned her attention to his eyes, checking for concussion. After a long moment of this, she withdrew, rolling back onto her heels.

“I think you’re fine,” she said. “Apart from the goose-egg, I mean, but I don’t think there’s any lasting damage. You’re lucky; that horse of yours went crazy. It’s a miracle you weren’t trampled.”

“Horse wouldn’t hurt me," he slurred. He tried to move, tested his bindings, and found them quite tight. “I don’t suppose you would be so kind as to release me? No?”

“Sorry.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, and his gaze turned stony. “I will have you know I am betrothed to Prince Gabriel, who is the greatest tracker in all this land. He  _ will _ find you. He  _ will _ free me. And you will not like the consequences when he does.”

The swordswoman hummed in vague acknowledgement of his words before rising and walking away. Aziraphale’s disapproving frown followed her movements as she paced, half-idle, hopefully reconsidering her actions. He watched her pacing carefully, searching for any sort of leverage that might help him free himself, and his gaze came to land on the sword at her hip.

“May I assume, then, that you are a sellsword, my lady?”

Her pacing halted, and her gaze met his side-long, suspicious. “Ye-es,” she said slowly.

“And your companions? This young man-” He nodded to the spindly man sulking at the railing of the ship where he kept watch, and then up to the sails, where the fanged woman was carefully navigating the dark waters. It was not so much a ship, he realized, now that he was bothering to take it in. It was little more than a large boat, the dark sails giving it a greater appearance than it was. “-and the lady?”

“Lady!” the woman at the front spat, and then spat literally as well. Not out of hearing after all. Or perhaps she just had very  _ good _ hearing. “I’m not a  _ lady, _ sweetheart.”

“My apologies,” Aziraphale said, because he may be kidnapped but manners cost nothing. “I had merely assumed; I meant no offense. What are you, then?”

From the shadows came an odd slurping sound, and then the hiss of air pushed through a cavern of fangs. In the dark, he saw her shadow drop from the sails and stalk down the deck toward him; she came into the light slowly, the small pool of lanternlight casting eerie shadows over her where he sat looking up to her face, patchy scale-skin gleaming damp and dripping. Her lips curled back to reveal her fangs, and she said, “I’m a  _ monster, _ boy. And  _ your _ worst nightmare.”

“My every day is a nightmare from which there is no waking,” Aziraphale said. “But I appreciate the effort. However, I am not afraid of you just because you have a skin condition, and your teeth make me worry more for your dental health than anything.”

Behind the woman, the swordswoman’s hand went to the hilt of her blade-- not drawing, but prepared to, should it come to it. Her eyes, though, were on her boss-- waiting for her to move first. He was not the one being threatened here, if only the woman knew. Aziraphale filed that information away, and turned his attention to the spindly man at the railing.

“And what about you?” he called over his shoulder. “Are you a sellsword, a monster, or something else?”

“What?” The man glanced over his shoulder for a beat, and then returned his gaze out over the shadowed river. “O-oh- I’m- I’m an assassin, actually. So. I guess sort of a sellsword. Well, selldagger. Sellpoison?”

“You don’t know?” Aziraphale was surprised by that one- he would have thought the young man to be a dogsbody to his companions, by the way the swordswoman had spoken to him.

“Well I’m a bit, um, new to being an assassin, is all. Haven’t really decided yet.”

“Ah, I see. Never actually killed before? I shall be your first victim, then.”

The shadow of the man’s head lowered, disappearing somewhere beyond his shoulders. “I din’ say  _ that,” _ he mumbled.

Interesting. Aziraphale filed that, too, away for later, and turned his attention back to the leader of the trio. “Well then, my lady monster, I must insist you release me right now. It will go much easier for you if Prince Gabriel has no reason to track you.”

“Ohh, but we  _ want _ him to track us,” she said, voice dropping to a low, guttural hiss. “And when he finds your body abandoned on the shores of Keletago-

-/-

_ Hi. Author here. Sorry to interrupt just as we’re getting to the good bits. This won’t take very long, I promise. _

_ It is important here for the readers to be given something of a local history of sorts before the story can move any farther, is all. _

_ The kingdom Aziraphale comes from is called Cielo. It is bordered by a river called merely The River, whose ever-changing shores have caused a great deal of conflict over the centuries between Cielo and their neighbors in Keletago. A village might, for example, be on the Cielo side of The River for years, and then the flood season might come and drastically change the entire course and suddenly the village will be under Keletago rule. _

_ Now, the reader is probably thinking that it makes the most sense to establish permanent borders, or simply for villages not to spring up so close to the actual river, but this is, quite frankly, giving the people of both kingdoms far too much credit. _

_ The most important thing to take from this is that the two countries are, at all times, ready for war, and for some reason mediators keep very insistently preventing this. The other important thing to know, though this will have no bearing for quite awhile, is that Aziraphale comes from a village very, very close to The River, and Crowley’s family comes from a village that has, through some quirk of nature, always sat on the opposite side of the river as Aziraphale’s. _

_ Okay, you can get back to the story now. _

-/-

“Ohh, but we  _ want _ him to track us,” she said, voice dropping to a low, guttural hiss. “And when he finds your body abandoned on the shores of Keletago, he’ll know that Keletago has broken the treaty and Cielo will have no choice but to retaliate.”

(Behind them, the spindly man said, “Hey, boss?”)

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. They meant to start a war, then, using him as the instigator. It seemed a bit silly, really; both countries were so ready to settle the score that they hardly needed something so drastic as the death of the prince’s betrothed to provoke them into it. They would probably do it for something as simple as a rude gesture or a taunt called across The River. They would start a war if one of them so much as looked at the other wrong.

“You’ll pardon my saying so, but I hardly think you need to go to  _ such _ extremes in order to start a war. Have you considered sending one of the princes a rude note, signed from the other?”

The woman grinned at him. “Yes, of course the princes would go to war for far less than this, but the people would not support the war effort if the offense was merely to their rulers. But you,  _ ohh.” _ She cooed at him, reaching out to trace one sharp nail up his chin. “You’re very  _ popular _ with the common people. Once you’re dead, the masses of Cielo will rise up for vengeance. They’ll  _ demand _ that the prince take them to war.”

(“Seriously, boss,” the spindly man repeated, louder this time.)

It was true that Aziraphale was popular with the common people. Where the nobility he had been born to and raised among found him soft and useless, the people of the kingdom looked on him and saw a man who was kind, and gentle, and cared for them. Even with his heart broken these ten years, he had never been able to bring himself to take it out on others, and tried to always reach out and help- he held out his hands to those who needed it, provided comfort and company to the sick and dying, helped the kitchen staff to smuggle out leftover food to feed the hungry, and he always had a kind work for anyone who needed one.

(“One does not pass by on the other side,” he’d told Gabriel, when the prince had discovered at his efforts, and the prince had smiled and indulged him. It was one of the things he respected about his fiance; Aziraphale’s family had always scoffed at him, at times tried to make him stop. Gabriel seemed to share their feelings, but at least he’d allowed Aziraphale to continue without argument. Small blessings.)

While Aziraphale didn’t believe himself quite as popular as the woman suggested, he could see why his death would be more likely to rile up the people of Cielo than a spat between the princes. From there entropy would kick in and the people’s desire to settle the score once and for all would do the rest.

The woman took Aziraphale’s silence at her words to mean that he understood her implications, and leaned down so that she was very close to him, close enough that he could smell the stink of her breath on his skin. He recoiled, and her eyes gleamed with mirth.

“Whether you like it or not, you’ll start the war. The only real question is whether we kill you here, or wait until we reach our destination.”

“Boss!” the spindly man called once more, and she snapped her gaze up to him with a hissed,  _ “What?” _

“There’s someone following us.”

“Inconceivable!” she spat, and, Aziraphale forgotten, moved over to the railing.

Despite her insistence otherwise, there was indeed a boat following them. It was a small one-man vessel made for speed and stealth; it was a wonder the spindly man had seen it at all. Now that they knew it was there, though, it was impossible to miss the dark shape cutting through the water, gaining on them with each stretch of river they sailed.

“Put out that lantern, Newt!” the woman called, dashing back to the sails. “Anathema, help me with the sails, we need to put on speed.”

The swordswoman- Anathema, then- hurried off to do that, while the spindly man, Newt, came over to where Aziraphale sat. He knelt before the lantern but before he could put it out Aziraphale caught his gaze and held it, eyes boring into the man’s own.

“The longer I am held, the worse it will be for you,” he said quietly. “Prince Gabriel will not be pleased, and he  _ will _ find you.”

“Um,” Newt said, and tore his gaze away, turning his attention to the lantern. He closed the shutters on it, hiding the light and dropping the ship into complete shadow.

The only light they had now was the starlight: Aziraphale turned his gaze skyward, and then let it drop to the ship’s deck, to the shadow of Newt still kneeling in front of him. He did not like looking at the night sky; he and Crowley had spent far too much time on the roof of his study stargazing together, charting star after star after star after star. To look at the sky now placed his heart more tightly into a vice that never quite seemed to loosen, and now, when his focus must be on escape, he could not bear the distraction.

How well could Newt see in the dark, Aziraphale wondered. He could, a bit- dimming his study for nearly a decade to ease Crowley’s pain had borne the side effect of making him capable of at least being able to discern clear shapes in the dark, and with the starlight he had enough that he could see which shadows were cast from where, even though details were lost on him. If Newt was blind in the dark, then Aziraphale could use that to his advantage, perhaps, and escape.

While he considered his options, a shadow slunk across the deck to the back railing. The leader, he suspected; the silhouette didn’t move with the same firm intent that Anathema’s did. Anathema moved like a woman who knew, at all times, that she belonged where she was and if anyone objected- and no one, she knew in her heart, would dare- it was their problem, not hers. Their leader moved like… well, like a monster. Like someone who had spent her entire existence being told she was a monster, and had leaned into it gleefully, but also knew that she belonged  _ nowhere. _

More importantly to the situation, she moved like someone who could see perfectly well in the dark.

“Still on our tail,” she hissed. “And getting closer, too! Inconceivable!”

An eyeroll should not be audible, but Anathema managed it somehow, even up on the sails as she was, and slightly out of sight, for a given value of the word in the dark. Aziraphale looked from one shadow to the other, and made some calculations. The leader was calling orders to Anathema, and Anathema called Newt to help her, leaving Aziraphale unguarded. If he waited until the boat was close enough, maybe he could leap over the side and swim to it? He’d have to wait until it was very close, though; he had no idea what the waters here were like, and didn’t want to spend longer in them than he had to. He doubted very much that they were  _ tame. _

So he waited. He listened to the leader- Dagon, Anathema called her eventually- shout orders at the other two, listened to them call back and forth as they tried to navigate the dark waters and find safe passage between the winding shores swiftly. And still their pursuers gained on them: Dagon could not understand how the boat could possibly be faster, yet it was, and whoever was sailing it seemed to have a better knowledge of The River than they did, or at least was doing a better job of navigating.

“Inconceivable,” Dagon spat, as the boat came within a hundred feet of them, and then there was a splash as Aziraphale flung himself over the railings and into the water below.

-/-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was flipping through the book for ideas the other day and it turns out Buttercup's horse was also named Horse. I swear I didn't do that on purpose.
> 
> Bonus points to any one who figures out what I did with the kingdom names.


	5. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale was having so many bad days all at once that he couldn’t actually decide which thing was actually making it a bad day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With all apologies for leaving this so long- for those not following my other works, the gist is that I backburnered my other projects so I could finish the Labyrinth au, then back-to-school hit at work and I’ve been too stressed. This writing style is harder for me to slip in and out of, so I can’t write this fic on the fly like I can some of the others.

-/-

Aziraphale was familiar with being in the water of course.

Back on his family estate, where he’d lived all the way up until moving to the palace three years ago, there had been a stream, a tributary of The River that passed not too far beyond the pasture where Horse lived. And a little way along that, there was a place where it turned wide and shallow as it rounded a bend, a place where the shore was sandy and even at the deepest point it only came up to Aziraphale’s waist.

This had been one of his and Crowley’s special places; a place that his family didn’t care to look for, where the pair could sneak away to and spend some time alone together. Aziraphale had spent many a lovely day sitting at the edge of the rock that made the far shore, feet trailing in the water while he watched Crowley gallivant about, or sometimes read out loud to him while he floated along the water’s surface, toes tangled with Aziraphale’s to keep himself from drifting away. 

And of course at other times Aziraphale would join him in the water, and that was fun, too. It was always refreshingly cool: the sun kept the surface just warm enough that it eased the discomfort of a hot day without ever creating a real chill. And the water was clear and, at this part of the tributary, calm and easy.

Too, there was the palace: one of Gabriel’s rooms had a heated pool, always kept comfortably warm and circulated all the way through. Gabriel often invited Aziraphale to join him, and Aziraphale would often oblige: he liked to soak up the almost decadent heat, floating on the surface while Gabriel told him stories of his hunts, or of the various nobles, or of his latest trip to Keletago to discuss the ever-fragile and constantly-changing peace treaty that existed between the two kingdoms. At other times Aziraphale would sink into the water until only his eyes were above the surface, watching Gabriel swim laps across the length of the pool and back. He hated himself for it, but: at these times he almost thought it might not be so bad being married to the prince.

The point of all of this, of course, is to say that while Aziraphale was sure he could swim the hundred feet or so between the kidnappers’ boat and the one pursuing them, he had failed to take into account three very important things:

One, that the most swimming he had ever done was a very undignified doggy paddle across calm, still, shallow waters,

Two, that The River was notorious for being colder than the deepest pits of hell and choppier than a potato peeler who has to prepare chips for a hundred in an hour, and

Three, his hands were tied.

He hit the water hard and went under, kicking his legs violently and managing to get his head above the surface. After only a moment, though, a wave from the wake of the ship pushed him back down again and he swallowed a mouthful of water in the process. He did his best to hold his breath: his lungs burned, his legs burned; this was far more effort than he was used to exerting. He fought his way back to the surface and coughed desperately, trying to fill his lungs before he was knocked under again.

Above him, in the darkness, he heard Dagon swearing. “You’re a fool,” she called down to him. “Don’t you know there are lontrakie in these waters?”

-/-

_ A quick note on lontrakie, because they’re both extinct and pretty much unheard of outside of Cielo and Keletago. _

_ Picture an otter. Now picture it a little bit smaller than the average human adult. Now give it the cunning of a human and the bloodthirsty viciousness of the Big Bad Wolf. Give it a mouthful of fangs and a tail that can crack a man’s skull. _

_ Got it? _

_ Then you’re about halfway to understanding what a lontrakie is. _

-/-

Aziraphale’s eyes widened as, even as she spoke he heard a splash in the distance of several sleek bodies coming toward them. They were silent in the water: had Dagon not warned him of their presence, he would not have known about them until they began the tell-tale hunting barks, at which point it would be too late.

Already he could hear the high-pitched howl going up, on one side then the other: the lontrakie were surrounding him, ensuring there was nowhere for him to go to escape their claws, their fangs, their tails.

Would it be so bad?, he wondered. Dagon and her companions had already made it clear they meant to kill him eventually. The lontrakie wouldn’t be a nice way to go, but it would be defiant. It would be a hitch in their plans. Perhaps his death ahead of schedule would prevent the war that they were trying to cause: Prince’s consort goes for a swim, is eaten by lontrakie. Not exactly the sort of thing to blame Keletago for.

On the other hand, he didn’t want to die at all.

A shadow vaulted over the rail of the boat above him and then Dagon was beside him, treading water far more gracefully than his violent thrashing. In the moonlight the water gleamed on her scales and teeth, creating an almost ethereal glow around her. She threw an arm around his waist, vice-like where it clamped down on him.

“I’m going to haul you up into the boat now,” she growled.  _ “Don’t do that again.” _

The lontrakie’s calls were getting closer, more bloodthirsty. Bizarrely, he was more afraid of Dagon than of them, but at least he knew Dagon wouldn’t kill him  _ immediately _ like the lontrakie. He swallowed heavily and nodded.

“Good boy.” Arm still clamped around his waist, her free arm pulled them both through the water the short distance to the boat. She slipped under water, then, dragging him with her, and for one panicked moment he thought she might be planning to drown him and then they left the water in a burst of force, her free hand catching a ladder hanging down the hull.

From there it was the work of a moment for her to haul them both onto the deck. She flung him down and leaned back on the railing, not even breathing hard while he retched and coughed from the amount of water he had swallowed. Once he was sure he’d got all of it, he flopped forward to lie in a face-down heap, still breathing heavily.

Dagon snorted, and began stalking her way toward the sails. “Newt, how far are we from the Really High Cliffs That No One Can Climb?”

_ (One shared aspect of the culture of Cielo and Keletago was that no one was very good at naming things.) _

“Not very far now, boss,” Newt said, handing over the ropes.

“Good. We can’t lose our pursuer here, but we’ll lose them at the cliff face.”

Aziraphale curled around himself on the deck, listening to the three working the sails and the rudders, encouraging the boat to go faster. He knew of the Cliffs; they consisted of a pair of sheer drops several hundred feet straight up and down, and no one in the history of the kingdoms had ever climbed them all the way to the top.

No doubt his kidnappers had some trick for getting up there; how his pursuer was meant to he didn’t know. (He wasn’t sure who his pursuer must be. His initial thought was that it must be Gabriel, but the silent, dogged pursuit wasn’t Gabriel’s style. He was the sort of man who liked for people to know he was there, who liked being the center of attention. At least, that was how Aziraphale knew him. He had never been with the prince on one of his hunts before; perhaps this was how he was outside of the comfort of the palace?)

Still, something in his heart told him it wasn’t Gabriel on their tail— the prince, he suspected, was too far away to be of any use to him now. Which begged the question of who was following them, and why, and what they intended to do once they caught up. Some attempt to save the prince’s consort? Or something more sinister?

Aziraphale wished he had the energy to be worried.

-/-

While Aziraphale frets and Dagon and Anathema (and not very much Newt at all) go about the complex and rigorous task of navigating the rocky waters at the mouth of The River in search of their landing place in the dark, let us take the chance to look in on Prince Gabriel, because Aziraphale’s assumption is correct: while he is tracking Aziraphale’s captors, he is too far away to be of any use.

-/-

Prince Beelzebub was not meant to be in Cielo anymore. He’d meant to return earlier that day, to begin preparations for the war that would, with all luck, be starting by the morning. But Prince Gabriel kept an excellent table, and he’d allowed himself to linger, rolling his eyes at his counterpart’s attempts to make jokes.

Prince Gabriel had spent a great deal of time talking about Aziraphale, the sweet little consort he’d picked up. Beelzebub had met him, of course— he was a timid, mousy little thing, a cloud of sadness ever clinging to him- a lost love, Gabriel had told him once, pouting a little. Pampered by life in the palace, indulgence manifest, doted on by the prince and queen, and yet always longing for a much simpler time where he had the attentions of a stableboy. It was enough to turn Beelzebub’s stomach, which was why he tended to avoid the consort whenever he came to Cielo- often, these days, though he preferred to have Gabriel come to Keletago to conduct their business.

Still, he was meant to have left and here he was, finishing off a frankly decadent lunch while Gabriel invited him for a glass of wine before departure, and by the way Gabriel was eyeing him while he twirled his empty champagne glass, the prince knew that it wasn’t wine he was being offered. He smirked, and rose to follow his counterpart to his office, where they wouldn’t be disturbed.

Gabriel had barely finished securing all of the locks to his office before Beelzebub’s lips were on him-

-/-

The man stopped reading, a furious blush crawling up his cheeks. He’d forgotten about this bit, and now he muttered to himself while he flipped through the pages, seeking the point that it would be appropriate to come back into the story. The boy sat up a little straighter in bed, frowning.

“I thought you said Prince Gabriel loved Aziraphale,” he said.

The man’s eyes flicked distractedly across the words. Four pages of this, really? “Well-” he said, looking for the next section, “In fact what I said was that  _ Aziraphale believed _ that Gabriel loved him.”

“So he didn’t really?”

“It would appear so,” the man said, and, “Ah, here we go. A knock sounded-”

-/-

A knock sounded at the door, frantic and frankly panicked. Gabriel stopped what he was doing and sighed into Beelzebub’s shoulder. “What,” he called, lifting his head just enough to be heard unmuffled through the well-locked door. When the pounding continued, he took a step back, taking in the murderous look in Beelzebub’s eyes before adjusting his clothes and striding to the door.

“Put yourself back together, my love,” he said. “I’ll take care of this.”

He heard the rustle of clothing behind him while he worked slowly at the locks on the door, glancing behind him just before the last to find Beelzebub slouched cheekily in his big desk chair, one bare foot up on his desk and a smirk across his face. Gabriel’s teeth clicked as his mouth snapped closed— so this was the game he wanted to play? Whoever was at his door better have important news.

He unbolted the last lock and flung the door open to find a wide-eyed messenger on the other side.

_ “Well?” _ he demanded. “I was in a very important meeting. What are you disturbing me for?”

“Your highness,” he said, affecting a brief bow, just enough to honor protocol, and then, “Sir, that- that  _ horse _ of your betrothed is- well, he’s trying to get into the palace.”

“That hellbeast of Aziraphale’s would happily destroy anything he was allowed to left unchecked. What is this concern of mine? I have people hired specifically for tending that creature.”

“I am aware of that, sir, but none of them have been able to calm him, and your fiance is nowhere to be found. We believe-” and here he stiffened a little, weight resting on his back foot should the news be unwelcome, and went on, “-we believe that something happened to Aziraphale, and the hell-horse is… trying to… tell us.”

It sounded absurd. Absolutely mad- the monster that Aziraphale insisted was a normal horse, untamed and wild and violent, being smart enough to note danger to his master  _ and _ know to come to the palace for help? The notion! There was no way such a thing was possible- and yet.

And yet, Gabriel had watched the thing go from a rampage to a kitten at just Aziraphale’s touch, had seen Aziraphale calm him from ransacking yet another stall, trampling yet another stablehand, just with a gentle word. The beast was wild, yes, and could not properly be called a horse, true, but he was completely loyal to his master, complete putty in his hands.

If Aziraphale was in trouble, the beast would absolutely do everything to find someone capable of helping him.

“All right, I’ll come see to the matter,” he said. He half-turned to Beelzebub, who had unfolded himself from the chair and was padding across the room, boots slung over his shoulder. “You’re leaving?”

“I have buziness to see to in Keletago,” he said. He patted Gabriel on the chest in a companionly sort of way, hand over his heart. “Thank you for the  _ wine, _ my friend. I’ll take my leave.”

-/-

The demon Aziraphale called Horse refused to be calmed until Gabriel had had his own and his men’s horses brought around to go after his master. Only once he was sure that Gabriel was taking the threat seriously- that the threat had been communicated at all- did he cease trying to kicked down the palace door and grind his collection of terrified stablehands into dust. And once Gabriel and his men  _ did _ set out on their hunt, Horse trotted after them, keeping pace with Gabriel’s charger, a beautiful palomino who was as angelic as Horse was demonic, infinitely better behaved and gentle to any touch.

_ (Gabriel’s horse was also named Horse. In fact, in my translation of this piece, I turned up accounts of no fewer than fifty-seven horses named- sincerely, genuinely, by their masters- as Horse. If there’s one thing that can be said of the people of Cielo and Keletago, it’s that when something works they stick with it. On the other hand, when something  _ **_doesn’t_ ** _ work, they also stick with it. They’re a very ‘stick with it’ sort of people.) _

It wasn’t hard for Gabriel to find the place where everything had gone down- he had an almost supernatural ability when it came to tracking. He slid from his mount and crouched low to the ground, ignoring Horse’s antsy whines while he inspected the tracks to reconstruct for himself what had gone down.

After a moment, he stood.

“Aziraphale was attacked,” he said. “Three figures, by the looks of things- he fell from his horse here-” He pointed at the space where the ground had been most churned up, “-and then was carried away. Their direction carries them to the river. We’ll follow, and hope we catch them before Aziraphale is hurt.” He caught his horse’s reins and re-mounted, pulling around to look at the rest of his hunting party as he did. “If they have harmed a single hair on his head, I will take the price of it out of them in blood.”

-/-

Grey dawn was blurring the horizon when they reached the edge of the Cliffs. Aziraphale sat and stared up at them in a mixture of awe and terror, unseeing how they were meant to climb them- Dagon, he was beginning to believe after last night, would be able to manage no problem, but not the others, and not even Dagon with a passenger, as he doubted his hands would be untied for the sake of the climb.

As they drew nearer, though, he realized that there was no need for anyone to climb. A…  _ device _ had been placed on the cliff: a basket of sorts, big enough to hold several people, connected to the top by a length of rope. When he was dragged over and set into it, and all three kidnappers in place, Dagon untied one side of the rope and began hauling on the rope, pulling the basket upwards. When they had risen a few feet, Anathema or Newt pulled the end of the rope through a metal ring on the floor of the basket, and knotted it to keep it in place.

Aziraphale watched this process in fascination. Inch by inch, foot by foot, the basket rose higher and higher up the cliff-face. The rope, knotted every few feet, was fed through a hole in the base of the basket, and Aziraphale chanced a peek over the edge to see it hanging far below them.

“This is an amazing invention,” he said after awhile. “Where in the world did it come from?”

“Newt made it,” Anathema said, giving him a friendly nudge when he ducked his head in embarrassment.

“It’s not that big a deal,” he mumbled. “I just figured- you know, had to do something to get us up the cliffs.”

“Well it’s  _ very _ clever. I’m impressed.”

-/-

_ When my ancestor compiled the accounts of this story, they managed to find Newt’s original blueprints for this early elevator. In the interest of being thorough, I had an engineer friend of mine look over said blueprint and try to reconstruct it. He did, and failed spectacularly. According to him, it defied all known laws of physics. _

_ I then handed the problem over to my younger sister, who is a high school science teacher, and she handed it over to her students, who between them managed to make a working prototype, albeit only a model. What this says about Newt, or indeed about my sister and her students, or perhaps just the laws of physics, I’ll leave to the reader to decide. The point is, the lift  _ **_should not_ ** _ have worked, and yet, according to at least a half-dozen accounts, worked perfectly as intended. _

-/-

They were about halfway up the cliff when Newt peered over the side and said, “Uh, boss?”

“I’m a little busy, Newt.”

“Yeah, I know. I just thought you should know there’s someone climbing the rope.”

“What?!” She let go and looked over the side, rocking the basket and setting the rope swinging. Sure enough, climbing up it was a figure in all black, head to toe, a sword at their side. Dagon hissed. “Inconceivable!”

“They’re gaining on us,” Newt said, needlessly. Dagon hissed again, and started hauling faster on the rope.

“We can’t even cut the rope, not without dropping  _ us _ too. Damn! Anathema, help me with this, we need to get to the top as quickly as possible.”

With both of them pulling, they were able to get up the cliff a little faster. At another pause, Newt knotted the rope and peeked over the edge again.

“Still coming.”

There was no response that time, just Dagon and Anathema pulling harder on the ropes, taking it in turn- they were making it much faster up the cliffs now, but the figure in black was still keeping good time. 

Curious, and unattended, Aziraphale peeked over the edge of the basket at their pursuer. The person in question was dressed head to toe in form-fitting black, including a hood and veil over their face. They were climbing fast— almost like a snake coiling its way up the rope. But that wasn’t what Aziraphale really noticed. What his attention was drawn to was the sword hanging from the pursuer’s side, the gold-encrusted handle that was the only splash of color against the black ensemble.

He couldn’t see well from here, but Aziraphale knew that, were the blade to be drawn, the light would catch the edge as though it were on fire. He whimpered, and sat back in the basket.

“I know who pursues us,” he said weakly. “It is the Dread Pirate Anthony.”

“Oh,” Newt said after a long silence, broken only by the creaking of the ropes and the grunting exertions of his companions. “That’s not good.”

-/-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Gabriel’s Horse](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/72/64/93/726493202ab55f6533854272da69aa2b.jpg)
> 
> Author will explain this more in depth later when it comes up for a different character but the tl;dr is that royalty in these kingdoms are he by tradition. Beez is still _our_ Beez, whatever that means to you.

**Author's Note:**

> Like this? Want to see more from me? Want to ask me questions about future developments that I will be infuriatingly cryptic about? Then hit me up on Tumblr @grifalinas! I'm always happy to hear from you guys and get that sweet sweet validation.


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